


Anachrony

by samchandler1986



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 22:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11091102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: Cause always precedes effect,  Clara finds, even when 'before' follows 'after'.





	Anachrony

Rain lashes against the diner windows, refracting the neon lights of the Strip outside. Clara is wiping down tables, keeping half an ear on the conversations of the last of the late-night patrons. Mostly about the failure of the weather grid, of course. Some rumblings about the success of the secessionists in the recent Martian elections; the suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of the President of the Moon.

“I thought he died of congenital heart weakness?” Clara says brightly, pouring hot coffee and mineral oil for a table of leather clad cyborg-Bikers.

“Very droll baby-doll,” says their leader, who channels a Tarantino-era Daryl Hannah so hard it must be deliberate. She accepts the coffee with a smile. “But in this day and age?”

“Sometimes it happens,” Clara offers, “Doctors aren’t infallible, are they?” She smiles inwardly at her phrasing, unnoticed by the gang.  

“Nah, man, it’s too much of a coincidence.” This is from one half of ZZ-Top, mineral oil dripping into his beard. “With space politick as it is right now, and Earth still being under Martial Measures and all.”

“Hmm,” says Clara, retreating to her counter and taking up a pen. It might be nothing, of course. Conspiracy theories go wherever humans do. The pen scribbles in her notebook. _Or it might be our next adventure…_

She frowns, taps the pen against her mouth. The moon will have to wait until they finish _this_ little sojourn, of course, and Me is late. Three hours late. Not enough to worry Clara—not yet—but it’s amazing how much trouble the ancient immortal seems able to find, despite being essentially invulnerable.

It’s a relief then, half an hour later, to see Me return with a hooded stranger in tow. Clara is taking Daryl-cyborg’s thumb print in payment for their unconventional meal. They slip into a booth near the door. Curiosity piqued, she refills her coffee pot and reapplies her perky smile.

“Can I take an order?” her mouth is saying, before she realises quite who is sitting opposite her companion.

A mane of blonde curls and a knowing smile. If her heart wasn’t already a stopped clock it would skip a beat. “Clara,” says Me, oblivious. “This is Melody. Melody Malone. I think she might be able to help us.”

“Right,” says Clara, her mouth carrying on without her, through the record-scratch moment. “Good? Good.” She pulls herself together and extends a hand. “Nice to meet you, Melody.”

Her palm is warm and human. “A pleasure,” she says, and it sounds like she means it. “Ashley was telling me you’re investigating the unseasonable weather we’ve been having here in the desert.”

“Ash- _Ashley_ … said that, did she?” Clara manages, mouth twitching as she struggles to reign in her smile. Unseen by Melody, Me’s scowl could fry an egg.

“The weather grid has clearly malfunctioned,” the blonde continues. “I _think_ someone might have stolen a key component…”

“Really?” Clara slides into the booth. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, to put it bluntly, because I was asked to several weeks ago.”

“You’re a thief?”

“Of sorts,” Melody smiles. “I turned the job down.”

“But you think they found a replacement.”

“It seems likely. Now, I can give you names, faces and places. My only condition is that you take me with you when you go to reclaim the component.”

“Why?

Melody’s smile doesn’t budge, but some of the warmth drains a little. “I need to know who my competitors are. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.”

“If you’re interested in my help you can leave a message for me at the Little Alien Chapel. Otherwise…” She stands, and ties her raincoat tight. “…It was nice to have met you, Clara.”

“Goodbye, Melody.” She waits until the mysterious stranger is outside before turning to the surly Me. “ _Ashley_?”

Me rolls her eyes. “It’s a cover name.”

“Hmm. So’s Melody Malone.”

“I _had_ worked that one out for myself.”

“I’ve met her before.”

Me looks politely confused. “She’s forgotten?”

“I think it probably comes later on. In her timeline.”

The colour drains from Me’s face. “You met her with the _Doctor_?”

“Kind of…” Clara traces an aimless pattern on the formica table-top as she weighs her words. “Me, I think that was River Song.”

* * *

_There is an algorithm, one of the earliest they built into the TARDIS’s navigation system, that tracks her twin through time and space. It’s not about spying on him, she’s told herself more than once, it’s about_ avoidance _. They’re both drawn to crisis points, after all. It could be dangerous should they ever find themselves at the same one._

_He’s been in the same place for six weeks. It happens, of course. Sometimes. Generally if he’s hurt or imprisoned. Her fingers twitch over the buttons. If it’s not about spying ,this is as much as she can know._

_“You’re an idiot,” she says to herself, and clicks to query._

_Darillium._

_The name rings a faint bell—_

_The console chimes an interruption. An incoming hail. She raises her eyebrows, flicks a few switches. The worried face of the Shadow Architect appears on screen._

_“Miss Oswald. We require your assistance urgently.”_

_“How can I help?”_

_“The Dalek fleet is massing in the Seventh Quadrant. We believe an attack may be imminent.”_

_“This is a TARDIS,_ not _a warship—”_

_“I know,” interrupts the Architect. “We need intelligence, not military assistance. Our spies have been terminated. We suspect they already know about the Doctor.”_

_Her stomach lurches. Funny, how that still happens, brain filling in for the rush of blood. “Know what about the Doctor?”_

_“Oh.” The white-faced woman pinks slightly. “We assumed you were aware of his retirement on Darillium. With his wife, Professor Song?”_

_Clara blinks. “No.” The words sounding as if they come from very far away. “I didn’t. Well, if you’re short a Doctor then perhaps we can assist.”_

_“Our gratitude—” begins the Architect, but rude or not, Clara has cut the feed._

_It shouldn’t hurt, it really shouldn’t. She buries her face in her hands, trying to rationalise away the feeling. He doesn’t remember her, and whatever strange love they had for one another burned brightest ignored; unspoken. She never wanted domestic bliss, anyway, not with him. It would never have worked out – isn’t that what she told herself? The man was impossible._

For you, _says her treacherous hindbrain._

 _She slams her fist, once, against the console. Hard enough to tear flesh, break bones if she was human. But she isn’t, not anymore; s_ _he’s unbreakable._ _On the outside at least._  

_She sets the co-ordinates and launches the TARDIS into the heart of Dalek space._

_Time to work on the rest._

**Author's Note:**

> " You know who you remind me of?"  
> "Yes, probably a chap with a big-"  
> "My second wife."  
> \- River Song & the Doctor


End file.
